


so whiskey won't you come and take my troubles

by millepertuis



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, References to Blood Drinking, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7617829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millepertuis/pseuds/millepertuis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he could drink Seth’s blood straight from his heart, he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so whiskey won't you come and take my troubles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for scorpiod1's prompt at the [Dark Fic Ficathon](http://scorpiod1.livejournal.com/108115.html?thread=2303571#t2303571).  
> Title from Trampled by Turtles' song _Whiskey_.  
>   
>  Translated in Russian [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5954392) by Benitsubasa.

 

He wakes up with the taste of Seth’s blood in his mouth.  
  
  
  
  
They are arguing—they are always arguing, these days, it seems. Anger makes Seth’s heart beat faster.  
  
Anger frays Richie’s control.  
  
It never used to be much of a problem.  
  
  
  
  
“I want to go back,” Seth says, drunk and slumped over the bar, the bartender wiping the counter around him. Go back where? Go back to what? Richie wonders. To easier, simpler times? Richie dosed their father in kerosene and lit him on fire. Richie’s wanted to sink his teeth in Seth’s skin far longer than he’s had fangs.  
  
Seth drinks some more. Richie wonders if he could taste the alcohol in his blood, if he could get drunk on it. He wonders if he could taste the heroin there, still; if he could suck the craving for it out of Seth’s blood.  
  
  
  
  
Richie’s always been angry. Seth mislaid Richie’s toys or his lock-picking tools. Seth hid his bruises. Seth wrecked the car. Seth didn’t listen to him and got himself sent to jail. Seth pumped himself full of heroin. Seth is going to get himself killed one day.  
  
That anger has been Richie’s steadfast companion throughout the years. That burning anger, that possessive anger—the anger that Seth had taken something that was Richie’s and didn’t take proper care of it.  
  
  
  
  
They are arguing, and it won’t get out of hand as long as Seth doesn’t push, but of course Seth always pushes and this is where it leaves them: with Seth’s hand knotted in his hair, Richie’s mouth on his neck, breathing him in, listening to the wild beat of his pulse at his throat, wanting— wanting—  
  
“Let me,” he begs against Seth’s skin. Richie’s the precise one, the calculated one up until he isn’t but he can’t say it: _Let me bite you, let me taste you, let me have you_. He’s never been the charmer between the two of them. He’s never had the pretty words ready to flow out of his mouth the way Seth has. He’d read poetry to Seth sometimes, and that was easier—love poems and dirty poems and desperate poems. What he feels for Seth has always been easier to deal with indirectly, from a distance.  
  
There’s no distance between them now.  
  
“ _Richie_ ,” Seth says, and Richie is pushed away or wrenches himself away, he’s not quite sure; he only knows that it feels like the envelope of his skin stayed behind, clutching or being clutched by Seth, leaving him down to his bones and frayed nerves.  
  
“Sorry,” Richie says stiffly, looking away, more embarrassed by the fact that he lost control than by his actions. They’re nothing new. _I want to get under your skin_ , he had confessed to Seth once, young and in love and clumsy with it. He had wanted to carve a place for himself within Seth’s chest where no one would ever look at him again. He had wanted to slice the skin and rip the ribcage open to get at Seth’s heart and tie it to his own so he could never leave. He had wanted to get at the parts of Seth no one had ever touched and make them his.  
  
It’s nothing new, only it’s more literal now: if he could drink Seth’s blood straight from his heart, he would.  
  
“Hey,” Seth says, soothing. He wraps his fingers around Richie’s wrist and tries to pull him back in, gently at first and then more forcefully when Richie doesn’t immediately relent.  
  
That’s Seth alright: pushing him away but getting mad when Richie goes.  
  
“What?” he snaps at Seth, who only shrugs. It draws Richie’s eyes to his neck, though in truth they never stray far. They haven’t talked about the tattoo—haven’t talked about the heroin, the bite, the fire, anything. Seth acts like he has to keep moving to survive, like a shark, he likes to say, and Richie’s too busy pretending he’s not running after him to call a stop.  
  
He touches his fingers to the ink, and Seth shivers. His heart is beating wildly again. Richie feels hungry.  
  
Seth tugs him even closer until they lean their foreheads against each other and share the same breath.  
  
There’s nowhere to go back to. They only have to figure out which way is forward.  
  
“C’mon, brother,” Seth tells him. “Kiss me. Kiss me bloody.”


End file.
